


Sherlock Was Never a Girl's Name

by themakarabastard (autisticvantas)



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, ftm Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:45:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3306149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autisticvantas/pseuds/themakarabastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was ten, her mother had taken her shopping for clothes, as she had shot up tall in the past weeks. Sherlock pointed to the boys section.<br/>“Can I get my clothes from over there?” She asked. Her mother pulled a face.<br/>"No, Sherlock. Those clothes are for boys.“</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Was Never a Girl's Name

When Sherlock was ten, her mother had taken her shopping for clothes, as she had shot up tall in the past weeks. Sherlock pointed to the boys section.  
“Can I get my clothes from over there?” She asked. Her mother pulled a face.  
“No, Sherlock. Those clothes are for boys.“

Sherlock had whined and begged, but her mother didn't listen one bit. Sherlock and her mother had left with armfuls of pretty pink skirts and shirts with kittens on them. They were awful, and she made this fact very known. In return, she was spanked and sent to her room.  
It neared dinner time when Mycroft knocked softly on her door.  
“Sherlock, what's wrong?” Sherlock huffed and kicked at the pile of flimsy, glitter covered scraps of fabric laying haphazardly on her bedroom floor. Hangers poked out of the pile like pins in a pin cushion.  
“Mum wouldn't let me get the clothes I wanted.” She folded her arms and sat down on her bed hard, causing the old bed frame to creak. Mycroft frowned.  
“What kind of clothes do you like then?” He asked, walking over to her and sitting carefully on her bed. She shrugged, swinging her feet over the side of the bed.  
“I just wanted to look at the boy clothes. I like them better.” Mycroft tilted his head.  
“Any reason why?” He had asked. Sherlock shrugged again. “You know I can't read minds, Sherlock.” He teases, poking her side. She giggles and pushes his hand away.  
“Yes you can!” Mycroft rolls his eyes.  
“Impossible.”  
“Improbable, you mean!” Sherlock giggles. She went silent for a moment. “I think I want to be a boy. I don't like being a girl, it doesn't fit right. Is that wrong?” She glances at Mycroft. He was seventeen, which was practically grown up. He would know.  
“No. It's perfectly fine.” He tells her, and she believes him.

A month later, Sherlock woke up to Mycroft and mum arguing in the kitchen and a closet full of jeans and button up shirts, hanging right alongside dresses and tank tops as if they'd always been there.

Mycroft left the following May. He was an adult now, working as an intern for the government, leaving Sherlock all alone. The world was ending. His best friend was gone leaving him behind to deal with bullies by himself. Mother made him wear a dress that day for Mycroft's sending off party. His mother had brushed his long, curly hair carefully, yammering on about how pretty it was and how she wished she had hair just like his and on and on and on. He stood in the driveway silently as he watched Mycroft and father pack Mycroft's belongings into their old minivan. The rattling old automobile coughed into life, leaving Sherlock alone in their front yard. Alone alone alone.  
That night he stood in front of their bathroom mirror, looking at his reflection. He never asked for this. He was wrong. Slowly he picked up the scissors he had taken out of the sewing room and began to cut off his long, pretty hair.

When Sherlock was fourteen, he stopped using mirrors.  
Sherlock ran down the hall. He couldn't be late again he'd get detention, then they'd call home and oh god what would dad do? He opened the the door to the class room and burst in, sliding into his seat. Instead of Mrs. Mathews a confused supply teacher watched his progress to his seat.  
“Miss Holmes?” She asks. “You're late.”  
“Mister.” He says quietly. The supply teacher glanced up from writing his name down for Mrs. Mathews.  
“What was that?” She asks.  
“Mister Holmes.” He says, slightly louder. The teacher's gaze slid down to his small but still noticeable chest. He blushed and folded his arms, covering his chest.  
“Of course sweetie.” The supply teacher said, condescending. He flushed, embarrassed. The teacher turned her attention back to the lesson.  
'Miss. James' continued to call him miss for the rest of the class.

“Mum, dad?” His parents were watching the news together, as per usual. He stood in front of the telly and his dad strained to look around him.  
“Sherlock, darling, we must see the news. Betty's been saying we're getting a foot of snow.” Sherlock sighs.  
“Mum, Betty says that every day. It's only November 4th! This is really important. May I turn the TV off?” His dad chuckled.  
“Is the mob after you, honey?”  
“No.” Sherlock huffs out, and turns the telly off. “I uh. I've known this for a while now but...” He takes a deep breath. “I'm not... Really.... A girl. I don't feel like a girl, I never have.” His mum looks concerned, his dad upset. “I uh, I think that I'm transgender.” His dad's face darkened, his mum full of understanding.  
“I will not have a tranny as a daughter, do you hear me?” Mum places her hand over her husband's.  
“Dear, it's just a phase. She'll be over it in no time. I know I was a little tomboyish at 14, but I grew out of it in a year or so.” Sherlock frowned.  
“It's not a phase. I /am/ transgender and I always will be.”  
“Willamina Sherlock Shay Holmes. You are upsetting your mother and infuriating me! Cease this at once!” His father shouted at him, getting out of his seat and pressing his face close to Sherlock's.  
“I'm transgender, so either you accept that, or you don't.”

Sherlock stood in front of Mycroft's house, shivering in the icy rain. He knocked, and after a minute Mycroft opened the door, yawning.  
“Sherlock? What are you doing here?” He yawned.  
“Dad kicked me out. Can I come in?” Mycroft nods, moving aside to let him through. He watches him enter and looks out into the rain before shutting the door firmly, but not forcefully.  
“I'll make tea.” He says. Sherlock sheds his soaked coat and hangs it up on the coat rack, trying not to let it touch Mycroft's immaculate work jackets. He failed.  
“Could I, perhaps, get a towel?” Mycroft pointed towards a hallway to his left.  
“First door on the right. Take a shower, I'll come back with some clothes and a towel.” Mycroft was wide awake now, deducing what had happened. His gaze lingered on the vaguely hand shaped red mark on his cheek. Sherlock turned away, making his way to the shower.  
It did wonders for his state of mind, that shower. The warm water scared away the cold, making him feel calmer and more put together. As he shut off the water, Mycroft knocked on the door, opening the door a crack and handing him an old sweatshirt and flannel pants and a large towel.  
“I'll be in the kitchen” He said softly before taking his leave. The sweatshirt was much too big but the pants fit comfortably. He padded out onto the hardwood flooring of the hallway and into the tiled kitchen. He leaned against the door, unsure. Mycroft puttered about, making tea and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  
“You knew this would happen eventually, didn't you?” The fifteen year old asked.  
“Yes.” Mycroft said. “Quit hovering at the door and sit down.” Sherlock pulled out a cheap wooden chair from underneath the matching, equally flimsy table. A sandwich cut in four was placed in front of him, along with tea with honey and enough milk to make it white as snow. Chamomile, he noted absently. They picked at their food in silence for a while.  
“So…” Sherlock trailed off, uncertain.  
“Did you know,” Mycroft said, clearing his throat slightly, “That I always wanted a brother? When the ultrasound technician said you were going to be born female I was disappointed.” Mycroft smiled at his empty plate, not really looking at Sherlock.  
“Mm.” Sherlock replied. His own plate was still full. They lapsed back into silence.  
“Do you want to be called Sherlock still?” Mycroft asked suddenly.  
“It's fairly unisex. I'd rather avoid the confusion of a different name anyway.” Sherlock said. Mycroft nods.  
“Alright.” More silence. Sherlock took small bites out of the bottom left quarter of sandwich, mostly as a way to avoid conversation. “Sherlock?” He glances at Mycroft. “I just … I respect your decision and … god I'm awful. I know it's not a decision, it's just how you are.” Mycroft sighs. “I just … you're my brother and I love you and you're welcome here for however long you want.” Sherlock grabs a napkin from a battered metal napkin holder on the table, not looking at Mycroft. That was more emotion than he had shown since he left for university.  
“Thank you.” Sherlock says, unsure. Mycroft smiles tightly.  
“The guest room is up the stairs on the right. Opposite mine.” Sherlock nods and pushes the rest of his sandwich away.  
“Thanks for the food and stuff.” Sherlock says.  
“No trouble at all. Good night, Sherlock.” Sherlock pauses, contemplating saying something else, but just nods and heads upstairs.

The day after he turned eighteen he found himself sitting in a plastic surgeon's office, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Top surgery, they said, would be easy for him. He had been an A-cup since he was thirteen and so the incisions would be small. Hardly even there, they said. He let out a deep, shuddering breath. He wanted to do this, he did. But it was still scary. Three times already he had considered up and leaving. Mycroft sat on the uncomfortable bucket seat in the opposite corner, texting. Occasionally a glance was thrown his way, until Mycroft put his phone down.  
“You'll be fine, you know.” He says. Sherlock gives a jerky nod, and stares out the window. It was raining a little out. As he watched, a woman passed by, talking on a phone while her toddler tugged on her arm, making her stumble. The toddler fell into a puddle. He looked away, down to his lap where the bright yellow pamphlet that Mycroft had picked up from the coffee table sat. He and the surgeon had both agreed on keyhole top surgery. The pamphlet talked about the procedure, giving him information he had obsessed over for months.  
‘The Keyhole Top Surgery procedure is ideal for small chested men and women. During this procedure, a small incision is made along the bottom of the areola, and the breast tissue is removed with liposuction through this incision. With keyhole surgery, the nipple stalk is left intact. The areola is not resized and nerve sensation will be maintained.’ He reread the pamphlet for the seventh time. Just then, the anesthesiologist entered. Her questions pulled him out of his worry for a few minutes. After another thirty minutes, he was lying on the surgery table, being told to count down from ten. He never could remember if he got to zero.

Post op was surprisingly relaxing. He wore his old binder for two weeks, to help the skin attach to the chest wall again. While not doing anything overtly active was irritating, he suffered through. The surgery barely left a scar at all, he was pleased to note.

Even though Mycroft offered several times to pay for it, Sherlock never got any bottom surgery done. It never seemed necessary, it wasn't as if anyone was checking down there. His dysphoria, as he has realized long ago, came from how others would see him. He knew he was a man, it was just others that needed to see. He knew he wouldn't feel much of a difference whether he had a penis or a vagina. Unfortunately, not everyone saw it that way.

Victor Trevor's lip curled, and Sherlock felt panicked.  
"So you're not really a man at all."  
"I am, actually. I just have a vagina."  
The other man yelled abuse at him for a good while, and Sherlock shouted abuse right back. He couldn't believe this man had ever been his friend.

He rarely got sick. But when he did it was awful. He puked over the side of his bed, three times in the toilet, twice in the sick, and three times into whatever coffee mug was closest. Finally, he went to the A&E where John worked, insisting on seeing John and only John. It took forever, but finally he was led to a room. John walked in a few minutes later, looking irritated.  
“I'm not leaving work today, it's too busy!” He snaps. Sherlock manages a glare before another wave of nausea makes him almost throw up the small amount of stomach acid he had left.  
“I'm sick.” Sherlock snaps after it passed. Well, tries to. He just sounds weak. John sighs and pulls a chair out from under the desk.  
“Alright. Let's have a look.”  
The exam was standard and Sherlock answered them all with a bored expression, or as bored as he could manage with the constant nausea.  
“Any allergies?”  
“Just pollen.”  
“Taking any medication?”  
“Sustanon, Zoloft.” Sherlock says, reading the poster on the wall. John frowns and pauses. “Something wrong?”  
“Sustanon is for hormone therapy.” He says.  
“Yes..?” Sherlock turns his attention back to John. John looks confused but shakes it off.  
“Recent surgery?”  
“No.” John takes his blood pressure and temperature.  
“So uh. How long have you been having hormonal problems? If it's recent the Sustanon could be causing problems.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and the nausea shot him in the gut again. John narrowly avoided being covered in stomach acid and a cup of water.  
“I've been on HRT for about 15 years, I doubt that's the cause.” John nods.  
“Any other symptoms besides fever, nausea, and vomiting?”  
“Not really.” John sighs.  
“Food poisoning, probably. Not really flu season.”  
“That's all then?” John shrugs.  
“Drink water, lots of bed rest. That's it.” Sherlock huffs.  
“Fine.”

“John, there’s something ... I should say; I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. Why would he even tell him. It doesn't matter. John knows almost nothing about his past so he deserves to know, he supposes. “Sherlock is actually a girl's name.” John blinks once in surprise. And then he begins to laugh.  
“It’s not.” Sherlock laughs. John was right. Sherlock isn't a girl's name.

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive me if anything is wrong, and correct me in the comments  
> it's incredible, my most popular fic is for a fandom im no longer in.....  
> if you all enjoy homestuck, follow my tumblr, themakarabastard


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